


It's Warm in Castiel's Wings

by SaraWit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Short, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraWit/pseuds/SaraWit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of nowhere, a friend said, "I bet it's warm in Castiel's wings," and I couldn't get anything done until I wrote this tiny scene in which an injured Dean admits his feelings about a certain angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Warm in Castiel's Wings

It’s warm in Castiel’s wings.

This is Dean’s first thought on waking. His second thought is, _How the hell did I know that?_

Not the warmth part, obviously. That feeling is clear, spreading across his body, helping ease the bruises and cuts and burns he’d endured in the fight that had apparently rendered him unconscious. 

No, what confuses him is how quickly he identified the soft warmth enveloping him as a) wings and b) Cas’s in particular. 

The texture, maybe. He’d touched Cas’s wings once or twice — tentatively, breath trapped in his lungs as he stroked too-eager fingers down the feathers before jerking his hand away and shoving it roughly into the pocket of his jeans. _Nothing to see here, no sir._ But those stolen touches had been enough for him to memorize the rough/soft texture of the feathers and the power of the sinews that flexed and moved underneath them.

Of course, it could also be the scent. It had been getting harder to resist the urge to close his eyes and inhale deeply whenever Cas was around. And how bizarre that Cas’s scent never changes. Like, ever. Angel form, human form, low on grace, out-of-his-mind crazy. It doesn’t matter. Hell, it doesn’t even matter what laundry detergent he uses or what soap he borrows from the Winchesters when he showers in the bunker. (Which is a whole different level of hell that Dean can’t even contemplate: Cas, in Dean’s shower.) But somehow Cas always smells the same: unearthly, like ozone and incense and prayers. Not that Dean would actually admit any familiarity with Cas’s smell, if Sam were ever to bring it up again. 

But no, he hadn’t figured out his current location because of the strength of the wings that surround him or the brush of the steel-soft feathers as they shift to cradle him closer. It isn’t even the familiar smell that leaves him achy and wanting. 

It’s the feeling of absolutely _rightness_ , the feeling that he’s safe, loved, cherished. He so rarely had that in his life: as a child, as a hunter, as a condemned man and a dead man and a demon and a vessel and even as a brother. But with Cas … 

He must’ve sighed, because now it’s not just wings holding him; it’s a pair of strong arms, too.

“I’ve got you, Dean.”

Castiel’s rasp in his ear, Castiel’s rough lips pressing briefly against his forehead. Dean sighs again and stops fighting it. He leans his head into Cas’s chest, breathing deeply, gripping the thin material of Cas’s shirt tightly with both fists as if that will anchor him to what he’s feeling right now.

Because it’s warm in Castiel’s wings, and Dean isn’t sure he ever wants to leave them.


End file.
